The Palm Branch Napper
by Allie Chick
Summary: It has been one month since the Pool Incident. There's been a series of child kidnappings and Lestrade's girl has gone missing. Nothing to do but call the world's only consulting detective.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Hello All!

This started out as a sort of role play on tumblr and turned into a full out story. This is a collaborative effort between the lovely Nephynix and I, who took turns writing each part. Nephy's writing Sherlock's parts and I'm writing John's. Forgive any errors, as we did write this on the spot and sort of made it up as we went along.

Thanks for reading.

-Allie

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><p>Prologue:<p>

When John comes home from the surgery, he finds Sherlock sleeping on the couch, dressed in his usual sleep wear. This is probably the first time John has actually seen the Consulting Detective sleep.

John sees the sleeping form of Sherlock on the couch. He has never seen him sleeping before. Sherlock rarely follows the general norms of society, including sleeping. Often John would wake up at all hours of the night to the sound of Sherlock thumping around in the kitchen, or Sherlock playing the violin, or Sherlock dashing out of the house in a hurry. But now, he looks so normal, so vulnerable. John rarely sees Sherlock's vulnerable side. He smiles to himself and steps quietly out of the room.

Sherlock shifts, a small frown forming between his closed eyes. He curls in tighter on himself, like he's cold or trying to make himself as small as possible. What sounds like a moan escapes from Sherlock's sleeping form. He shifts again, agitated and very uncomfortable. His hands clench tightly into fists. "No." He whispers. "No…"

John stops when he hears a small sound coming from Sherlock. John steps towards the couch, watching him carefully. John finds himself kneeling on the floor in front of Sherlock. Sherlock shifts agitatedly and mumbles something incoherent. He's having nightmare. John wants to comfort him, but is unsure of what to do. He hand hovers in front of him. Slowly, John places his hand over Sherlock's clenched fist. "Shh..." John whispers.

Suddenly, Sherlock's hands loosen and grasp John's in a firm grip. He calms, but the frown between his brows does not ease. If his eyes were open, his facial expression would be identical to the look Sherlock gave him shortly after ripping the bomb off of his chest a month prior.

"John." He says, his voice childlike and frightened.

Suddenly, John understands what Sherlock's dreaming about. The pool. The explosion. John knows Sherlock has resented the fact that Moriarty escaped. He knows Sherlock is angry with himself for letting Moriarty get to him. "It's alright Sherlock, I'm here," he murmurs.

As if John has spoken the magic words, Sherlock's eyes flutter open, he blinks sleepily, his consciousness between awake and asleep. "For how long..?" He asks, though his eyes tell John that he really doesn't comprehend what he is saying. He's still asleep…

John is shocked by the question. He doesn't know how to respond, even though he knows Sherlock is not awake. The first thought that comes to his mind is 'Forever', but John knows he can't say that. Finally he says, "I'll be here as long as you need me".

_S_herlock's eye lids begin to blink very slowly, as if he is trying to keep them open, but failing.

"Even…if…you're…cross…?" It sounds like Sherlock is fighting to get the words out. As if the realm of sleep is calling him back very quickly. Sherlock's hands soon become limp around John's.

"Please, don't go…" He whispered, his words becoming garbled by sleep. "…best friend, John…"

Finally, Sherlock's eyes close and he sinks deeper into the couch. The frown line between his eyes eases and his lips slacken. His hand is still wrapped around John's wrist, though the pressure is considerably less.

"Yes, Sherlock," John whispers, even though he knows Sherlock is not listening to him, "Even if I'm cross." John's throat tightens as Sherlock mumbles that he is his best friend. He is stunned. Sherlock rarely expresses his feelings, and though John knows Sherlock likes having him around, he has never really said it. John knows Sherlock won't remember their conversation when he wakes up. But he will. He remains kneeling by the couch for a while, before standing up, and returning to his room.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1:

Sherlock practically jumps off the couch the next morning, energy pulsing though him.

He looks around the living room of 221B, searching for what had awoken him.

The sound is coming from the kitchen.

John is in the kitchen, trying to find food suitable for eating. Unfortunately, there isn't much. He checks the fridge, which is empty save for a mysterious cardboard box (John doesn't check it, it'll be full of body parts) and half a carton of spoiled milk. He then checks the cupboards, where he finds an empty box of instant rice. John makes a mental note to pick up the shopping later. From the living room, he hears footsteps.

_"Anything good?" Sherlock asks as he takes out two mugs. Food is boring…tea on the other hand, isn't too bad. He takes out the kettle and puts water on the stove._

"Surprisingly, no," John replies sarcastically, "But there are a few pieces of stale bread."

He puts the kettle on and takes the mugs from Sherlock's hands.

"Sleep well?" he asks with a small smile.

"Yes." Sherlock says casually, and tilts his head to the side, thinking hard.

A frown suddenly mares the consulting detective's face.

"I never did get the milk or the beans, did I?"

John shakes his head, "No, you never did get it."

He turns his attention back to making tea.

"But don't worry, I never expected you to," he says, "Any cases today?"

Sherlock blinks, bringing himself back from whatever thoughts were possessing him only moments before and looks at John. He opens his mouth to reply—

_Buzz. Buzz._

Sherlock straightens at the sound and dashes back into the living room. He dives for his phone, and after taking a glance at the caller number, answers.

"Sherlock Holmes."

The tea pot begins to whistle.

John can't help but grin as Sherlock dashes to the living room to answer his buzzing phone. He hopes the call is from Lestrade and he has a case for Sherlock.

John pulls the whistling kettle off the stove and pours the steaming water into the ready waiting mugs. Carefully he picks up one in each hand and carries them into the other room.

Sherlock frowns as he hears the voice on the other end.

"Fr—Sherlock. We need you to come to Paternoster Square. It's urgent."

"Sally?" Sherlock is rather confused. Lestrade's number is the—oh. "Of course. How could I refuse?"

"Good." Sally Donavan replied. "Bye."

Sherlock hung up and jumped to his feet. "We have a case. Paternoster Square. Get dressed. Something's happened to Lestrade."

John begins to worry the moment Sherlock says something has happened to Lestrade. He nods quickly, takes a long sip of his tea, and hurries up the stairs to his room. By the time he gets dressed and comes back downstairs, Sherlock is already standing at the door, wearing his customary coat and scarf, and looking a little impatient. John grabs his own coat from the hook on the door and follows the consulting detective out of the flat.

Sherlock's hands are restless in the cab while heading over to Paternoster Gardens. His mind traveling at a million miles a second, trying not to assume what was wrong with Lestrade.

Soon they arrived and Sherlock practically jumped out of the vehicle, leaving John to pay the cabbie.

Sherlock takes in every detail of the scene before him.

Sally, Anderson and Dimmock are all present, as well as other people who work for Scotland Yard but are irrelevant to Sherlock. He frowns, taking in more data. Said trio was standing together at the edge of the police tape…not searching for clues that would escape their notice or processing the scene.

That was very odd.

Sherlock's eyes then locked onto Lestrade.

The older man was motionless, standing in the center of scene, eyes down cast, fists clenched tightly and jaw set.

Yes. Something happened here.

But what?

The whole scene feels wrong. Even John can tell. He follows Sherlock under the police tape and towards Lestrade.

John is somewhat relieved to see the DI appears to be physically fine, but from his tense stance John can tell something serious has happened.

Dimmock intercepts them before they can get to Lestrade.

"What happened?"

Sherlock frowns. "Lestrade wasn't on duty today."

Dimmock sighs, as if he was expecting that from Sherlock.

"No. He wasn't." Dimmock gestured to the DI. "He was walking with his daughter too school. He rarely gets to do so. He took his eyes off of her for one moment and then…she was gone."

Sherlock frowns. "Gone?"

"As in Missing."

Sherlock nods. "Kids go missing all the time. Why do you need us?"

At that moment, Lestrade speaks up. "Because she is the eighth girl to go missing in this manner…"

John wants to elbow Sherlock for his callousness, but refrains from doing so. He gives Lestrade a sympathetic glance and hopes that he understands.

John knows he doesn't mean to be so tactless at such a bad moment, right in front of Lestrade, whose child has just gone missing. But John does wish Sherlock would be less sociopathic at times.

"What do you mean, eighth?" John asks.

Dimmock opens his mouth to respond, but it is Lestrade that answers.

"Just after the two of you got out of the hospital, strange kidnappings have started. The girls are 8 year olds, blonde with dark eyes. They are always taken from a public place and no one sees them…vanish."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but allows the man to finish.

"Up until a week ago, it was just kidnappings. The first girl went missing and was found on the steps of St. Anne's three days later with only bruises and slight memory loss. The next three girls taken were all assaulted in increasing degrees…at least until a week ago."

"Are you positive it is the same kidnapper?" Sherlock asks, wanting all the facts.

"That," Lestrade pointed to something at his feet. "Is this guy's signature."

John and Sherlock follow Lestrade's finger. The DI is pointing at what appears to be a simple palm branch.

Sherlock instantly whips out his magnifying glass and studies the branch.

"From where girl was taken, there was a palm branch lying where she was last seen." Lestrade's voice was tight, trying desperately to hold in the emotions that threatened to tear him apart.

"You say they were just assaulted until a week ago," John says, "What happened a week ago?"

Lestrade eyes snap shut, holding back tears, and he turns away.

Dimmick sighs before saying, "The last two were found dead. Strangled, with lethal doses of a paralytic in their systems."

John's stomach drops.

"Lestrade, I…" John begins, but he doesn't know what to say. What can he say? He puts a hand on the detectives shoulder and simply asks, "What's her name?"

"Evie," he mutters, voice full of emotion.

John looks down to Sherlock, still on the ground, with a faraway expression.

Something isn't right with this scene.

Sherlock can't exactly place it, but he just knows something is wrong.

"They don't remember anything, do they?" Sherlock asks. "The girls."

Dimmock shakes his head.

"They don't respond to certain places or sounds?"

Lestrade and Dimmock seem very agitated by this questioning. That doesn't stop Sherlock. They asked for his help, and he needed to know.

There is a piece missing. A crucial piece.

John can sense that Lestrade wants to be left alone, and he removes his hand from Lestrade's shoulder. John will leave him to grieve.

John steps away and kneels down next to Sherlock.

"What is it Sherlock?" John asks upon seeing his expression.

He knows that look. It's the look Sherlock gets when he's frustrated, when he knows something is wrong and it's the key to solving the case.

"What do we do now Sherlock?"

Sherlock looks around the scene once more. Ugh. There was something right there. Just beyond his reach…

"I'm going to need more Nicotine patches…" He mutters to himself.

He looks hard again at the palm branch. It seems to taunt him, yielding no more data than that it was a branch.

_Why a palm branch? Why a tropical plant? Is it a connection to a—_

Suddenly, something clicks.

"Another cipher!"

John can see the thought appear on Sherlock's face. He watches as his face lights up with realization.

"Another cipher?" John asks, not following him, "How d'you mean?"

Dimmick and Lestrade are listening to Sherlock intently. They watch with anticipation, hoping.

"A code, John!" Sherlock said, his excitement dulled by the slowness of his friend. "The palm branch isn't just a signature, it's a message!"

John ignores the isn't-it-obvious look Sherlock gives him. But then when Sherlock explains himself it seems so obvious.

"Oh!" John exclaims, "A palm branch! So, it's got something to do with… someplace tropical?"

Dimmick doesn't look impressed, "Well what does that have to do with anything?"

Sherlock gives Dimmick a look, a look very similar the one he would usually bestow on Anderson. "Everything."

Sherlock looks back at the branch, one piece discovered, but the puzzle still very much not finished.

"When can we take a look at the evidence from the previous victims?"

Dimmick looks over to Lestrade, silently asking for an ok. The older detective nods.

"Right now, if you are able."

Sherlock looks to John then back to Dimmick. "Let's not waste anymore time. The more data I can gather the faster we can find the girl."


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Hello again! Sorry if it seems to end at a weird spot, but I'm posting the chapters in the batches that we wrote them.

Thanks for reading! Tell us what you think!

-Allie (and Nephynix)

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><p>Chapter 2<p>

Dimmock has every piece, every scrap of evidence waiting for Sherlock and John when they arrive at Scotland Yard. Pictures, pieces of clothing, every little thing of importance, lay out on several tables for Sherlock to look at.

The only thing he could not bring were the two bodies of the young girls killed.

Sherlock is immediately drawn to the palm branches, but it is the clothing recovered from the girls that holds his attention. He pulls out his magnifying glass.

"Which outfit is from the first?" Sherlock asks without greeting.

Dimmock is happy that he sent Lestrade home. "The blue one." He replies quickly to the consulting detective.

The outfit he points to is a girl's school uniform. Well made and expensive considering the weave and the style. The blouse, blazer, and skirt spread neatly on the desk. Sherlock focuses his magnifying glass on the cuffs and hems. He is silent as he meticulously looks over the outfit.

John looks at the uniform, but nothing seems particularly special about it. He glances around at the other evidence. There's not a whole lot there. The clothes all appear to be private school uniforms, all around the same size.

There are pictures of the victims, on the tables. They all look remarkably similar. There's something about them. Something familiar.

Seeing the girls and knowing two of them are now dead, John can't help but think they should have been called in sooner.

"Anything?" he asks Sherlock.

Sherlock has now moved though all of the girls' uniforms, looking predominately at the sleeves and hems.

"Not much." He straightens and looks at John. "All the girls were taken from public places, but never from the same place and were never taken to the same place. Our kidnapper is very careful, selecting places where very little dust or other evidence can get onto the girls' clothing." He frowns, frustrated and turns to Dimmock. "Was there evidence of restraints on any of the girls?"

Dimmock shook his head. "None."

A deeper frown seeped into Sherlock's brow and he turns his gaze back onto John, then back to the detective. "We need to take a look at the two girls."

"I don't know if I can get you access to them," Dimmick says hesitantly.

Sherlock smiles mischievously. "That won't be a problem."

A while later they are in the morgue, examining the bodies. Molly hovers in the background, smiling faintly.

There is severe bruising around their neck and marks from an injection on their arms, but other than that, the bodies are fairly clean.

"Asphyxiation," John says after examining the bodies for a moment.

Sherlock takes this information in stride. "Anything odd about the wrists?" He asks, coming to hover at John's side.

At first, John sees nothing special about the wrists, but upon closer examination there appears to be a faint trace of adhesive.

Sherlock immediately whips out his magnify glass and takes a closer look at the adhesive.

"Molly, could you hand me a swab?"

The girl does as Sherlock asks, slightly confused.

Sherlock puts away his magnifying glass, and leans down over the wrist he is observing. He blows briefly on the adhesive and immediately swabs the area.

He looks hard at the swab as he stands. "Is the lab open upstairs?"

Molly looks rather nervous. "If this is for a case, then yes."

Sherlock nods to her and quickly dashes to the lab, eager to test the sample.

John is left standing in the morgue alone, awkwardly, with Molly. He coughs politely before following the consulting detective down to the lab.

Sherlock is bent over the microscope, examining the residue.

"So what is the residue from?" John asks, "Tape of some kind? Something used by the kidnapper as restraints?"

"Obvious." Sherlock says, a bit curtly, not looking up at John. He adjusts the focus on the microscope, trying to get a better look at what he collected from the girl's wrist. "It's what's on the tape that is important, John."

Using the fine adjustment just a bit more…ah there!

The flecks that Sherlock had collected came into focus.

They were strange granules…

He would need to run a test to figure out just what they were.

Hands moving like lightning, he quickly turns on the machine he used to locate where the pollen was from on Carl Powers shoes. The granules are obviously not pollen, but they do appear to be of natural origin. Sand or soil perhaps. The machine should assist in giving likely locations.

As he finishes, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He clenches his jaw, his hands still busy.

"John, can you pass me my phone?"

John sighs exasperatedly. Not this again.

For a moment he considers saying no, but then decides it wouldn't be worth the hassle. It's like dealing with a child; you have to pick your battles.

And this wasn't the most ridiculous thing Sherlock had ever asked him to do.

He walks over to the detective, reaches into his jacket, and retrieves the phone, being sure to be gentle. Sherlock doesn't look up from his work.

There's a single message.

"Text," he says, "From Lestrade. Wants to know if you have any developments."

Sherlock barely suppresses a sigh of frustration. He knows intellectually why Lestrade wants to know…

His daughter…

Sherlock doesn't look up from the microscope. "Tell him that I've got a lead, that I'll contact him when I have more definite facts, and that he must get some rest." He waits a moment before adding. "Please."

He focus' hard on the specimen before him, trying hard to block out the slightly shocked look on John's face that he can see out of the corner of his eye.

He doesn't need to be told that this is odd, even for him. Not just saying please, but really meaning it. He knows that something is very different in him now…

But then again, who wouldn't change at least a little after fishing your best friend's unconscious body out of a pool he threw you into to save your life?

Suddenly, a harsh blare comes from the computer.

It's found a match.

Sherlock smiles at the result. He knew it.

The dirt he collected was from an area not far from the Thames.

He stood up quickly. "Hurry, John! We have a location!"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3

Sherlock and John take a taxi to the location the particulate machine had located.

It was a small neighborhood rather close to the Thames, with small, quaint homes.

But something about the neighborhood set Sherlock on edge…there was a memory that went with this neighborhood…something dark and remote in the past…

Something that he had most likely deleted.

He frowned. What made this neighborhood so special? What could have possibly happened here? He clenched his jaw in frustration.

'So this is the neighborhood the girls were taken,' John thinks, 'Well, at least the last girl.' They walk past houses that look rather similar. It's all rather quiet. No children running through the street. The perfect place to take a stolen child.

John can tell Sherlock doesn't like the neighborhood. It gives John the creeps, but he doubts for the same reasons as Sherlock.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Hm?" Sherlock asks, snapping out of his thoughts. "Me? Yeah. Fine."

He studies each house as they walk past, trying very hard to remember.

There is something about this neighborhood.

Something important.

And it's giving him a headache just thinking about it.

'Ugh. I'm going to need more nicotine patches…'

John doesn't believe Sherlock is fine. He looks faraway and frustrated. John wants to push the subject, but knows there is no point. Sherlock won't open up to him, not unless he wants to.

"So, the kidnapper took the girl here, to one of these houses," John says, "But which one?"

Sherlock doesn't respond, but looks deep in thought.

"What are we looking for Sherlock?"

"Data. I need more data."

Sherlock turns around and retraces his steps back out of the neighborhood. He ignores John's exasperated expression and hails a cab.

"221B Baker St." He tells the cabbie after he and John are inside.

Sherlock leans his head against the window on the door beside him, his mind racing, trying to figure out why that neighborhood sets off so many alarm bells in his head. Frustrated that nothing is coming readily, he closes his eyes, taking slow, careful breaths.

He wishes John would just talk, just say something to distract him from the massive headache forming…

The silence in the cab is deafening. Not that Sherlock ever talks during cab rides, especially during a case. But this is different. Sherlock is different; he's not as alert and doesn't look well.

John feels he must do something.

"I hope Lestrade is coping well," he says, "Must be very difficult for him, not being on the case."

Sherlock doesn't respond, but remains leaned against the window.

"I can't imagine what he must feel like, losing his child from under his nose," John continues.

The cab stops in front of their flat.

Sherlock stumbles out of the cab. He stops moving, closes his eyes, and when he's sure that he has his balance, he approaches the front door.

He slides his key into the keyhole, but doesn't have time to turn it before the door swings open to reveal Mrs. Hudson.

And suddenly, everything clicks in Sherlock's brain.

The Palm branch.

The age of the girls.

The physical appearance of the girls.

Everything. Suddenly. Makes. Sense.

And it terrifies the Consulting Detective.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson says, a smile on her face. "What are—"

He cuts her off, pulling her and John inside the flat and closing the door firmly behind him. He doesn't let go of Mrs. Hudson for a moment.

"Martha." He breathes. "You are in serious danger."

John looks back from Mrs. Hudson, to Sherlock, and back to Mrs. Hudson. She looks just as confused as he is. But Sherlock's face is grave and serious. He looks afraid for her.

Then John suddenly sees it. The girls, they look like… Mrs. Hudson. Suddenly, John remembers one of his first conversations with Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson. She owes me a favor. Her husband was sentenced to death in Florida a few years back."

The palm branch. Florida.

That has something to do with the kidnappings, her husband's death.

"Florida, Mrs. Hudson," John says worriedly.

Her brows knit together in confusion.

"Sherlock, John dear, what are you talking about?" She asks politely.

Behind Sherlock's storm colored eyes, the wheels are turning at a frightening pace. He's glad to note that John has caught on. He'd praise his blogger if he wasn't so worried about what he needed to do to keep Mrs. Hudson safe.

Every detail of her case flashed though his mind.

And he knew he would need Mycroft's help, no matter how much he didn't want to rely on him.

Possible suspects of who wanted Mrs. Hudson silenced flashed though his mind, but he forcefully pushed them away. He needed proof! He couldn't just assume someone to be guilty without all the facts.

Even if Moriarty was one of the first people to flash though his mind.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he took Mrs. Hudson's hand in his and looked at his landlady with all seriousness. "Someone has been sending warnings all over London for you. Someone wants you dead for what happened eight years ago."

Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Why would someone do that, dear? Sherlock, you were the one who solved the case. I didn't even testify in court. Why would someone want me dead?"

John has not seen Sherlock so worried in his life. It's touching to see him concerned for Mrs. Hudson. He would say something, if he wasn't so worried for her himself.

"But you asked Sherlock to ensure his execution, didn't you?" John asks quickly.

Mrs. Hudson looks worried, "Well, yes dear, but who would know about that?"

John looks back to Sherlock.

Sherlock stiffens at the mere thought.

But he can't remember.

A detail that slipped his notice?

Sherlock bites his lip and whips out his phone, dialing a number he knows by heart, but never imagined he'd ever call.

It rings only once.

"What's happened?" Mycroft says on the other end.

"Mrs. Hudson is in danger." Sherlock says, his mouth going dry. "And…and I can't protect her."

Mycroft is silent on the other end. Out of the corner of Sherlock's eye, he sees John stiffen and Mrs. Hudson freeze.

Sherlock doesn't care. After nearly losing John only a month before…

He couldn't handle losing Mrs. Hudson…

She had been there for him when no one else had.

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Thank you." Sherlock breathed, the words barely audible.

"See you soon." Mycroft replies, knowing his brother doesn't need his weakness prodded at.

They hang up.

'He's calling Mycroft.' The seriousness of the situation suddenly hits John. He knows Sherlock would only call his brother if he had no other choice. The conversation chills him.

He turns to Mrs. Hudson and puts a hand on her shoulder. He can't imagine why anyone would want to hurt sweet Mrs. Hudson, who treated Sherlock and John like her own sons.

This whole case bothers John.

But what bothers John most is that Sherlock can't remember. He can't remember the most important details. Why?

Sherlock hangs up and turns to them. And they wait.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Hello wonderful readers! Thanks for the reviews, alerts, and favorites! We appreciate it!

And as a reminder, Sherlock's parts are written by Nephy and John's parts are written by me.

-Allie (and Nephynix)

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><p>Chapter 4:<p>

Sherlock, John and Mrs. Hudson sit silently in 221B, awaiting Mycroft's arrival. It's been about 8 minutes since Sherlock's desperate phone call.

Mrs. Hudson is seated in John's arm chair, a warm, but untouched, cup of tea in her hands. Her eyes are downcast and a frown contorts her face.

Sherlock, upon entering the flat had taken off his jacket and scarf, as well as plastered four nicotine patches to his forearm. Currently he lies on the couch, hands in a prayer position under his chin, a frown also covering his face.

_Why can't I remember? The nicotine should be helping!_ He thinks to himself, becoming progressively more and more impactient with himself.

For once, he's practically wishing his brother would just show up already.

John is slightly concerned with the number of nicotine patches on Sherlock's arms. But he doesn't say anything.

The room is tense with waiting.

Finally, after what has seemed ages, the door downstairs opens, and steps echo up the staircase. It's Mycroft.

John feels mildly concerned that Mycroft was able to enter the flat without being let in, he was not aware he had a key, but then lets the thought go. Mycroft can do many things John doesn't want to know about.

He stands in the doorway of the flat, dressed in his usual suit, holding an umbrella in his hand, and observing them.

"Tell me what's happened, Sherlock," he says, without greeting.

"Eight victims." Sherlock begins, listing off the data as it flows from his brain. His eyes remain shut, frown still deep in his forehead. "Girls, 8 years old, blond, dark eyed. All from private schools, different ones. All taken from public places. In the place where they were last scene, a branch of Floridian palm was found. All were missing for three days before being returned. All the girls were returned at the footsteps of a church. No one sees the drop off. Each victim has increasingly more signs of violence done to their person from victim to victim. Victims 6 and 7 were recovered murdered, asphyxiation after being drugged. Victim 8 has been mising for 12 hours and 39 minutes."

"But what does this have to do with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock?" Mycroft cuts his brother off, aggitation clear in his voice.

"It's a warning to her specifically. The physic of the girls is identical to her own at that age. The palm branch is a reminder of Florida, where her husband was sentenced to death. The victims were all drugged with a paralytic very similar to that used in American lethal injection." Sherlock's eyes shoot open. "Evidence has lead me to a small neighborhood just near the Thames. It's important…but I can't figure out why. The current victim will be the Napper's final child victim. She will come for Mrs. Hudson next."

"The current victim is Lestrade's girl," John interjects. He knows it's not important to the case, but feels he must remind Sherlock they also have the priority of finding Evie.

Neither brother responds to Johns comment, but Mrs. Hudson looks at John sadly. She could hardly believe this was happening.

Mycroft's expression grows solemn as he processes the information.

"I see," he says slowly, "So you want me to ensure Martha's safety?" he asks calmly.

Sherlock stands and actually looks his brother in the eye, not a hint of annoyance or sarcasm in his storm colored eyes.

"Please." He says, his voice small.

Mycroft's face remains blank, but it's obvious that Sherlock's concern for his landlady has hit home, because the older Holmes is fiddling with his umbrella.

"I'll need to make a few arrangements." Mycroft says, and Sherlock's shoulders slump in relief.

The older man turns to Mrs. Hudson. "Martha, I suggest you go and pack any absolutely necessary items you may need for the next week or so."

Mrs. Hudson looked up at Mycroft, the tea cup still in her hands, her body frozen to the spot as she absorbed all of the information Sherlock had stated. Tears were welling up in her eyes.

John can see she is clearly overwhelmed.

"Let me help you, Mrs. Hudson," he says gently. He takes the teacup from her hands, sets it aside, and helps her out of the chair.

Taking her arm in his, John guides her out the room. She mutters incoherent words of thanks, her voice too emotional to be clear. Together they go down the staircase and to her flat, leaving the brothers alone.

By the time they reach her flat, Martha has regained most of her faculties, and is able to gather a few things on her own, without much hassle.

She insists John waits for her in her living room. John stands in the middle of the room, looking around. He remembers the times he's been here, watching telly with Martha, when both were feeling a bit lonely. He remembers the times she's brought up tea and biscuits for John and Sherlock, or when she's cleaned up after them, even though she's insisted she's not their housekeeper.

This woman has helped them keep their lives together and means more to John and Sherlock than she realizes.

She returns with her necessities, and the two of them go back up the stairs.

Mycroft hangs up on his cell just as Martha and John reenter the upper apartment. He smiles kindly at the landlady and takes her bag from her.

Sherlock is pacing up and down the length of the apartment.

"Stop worrying, Sherlock." Martha says calmly, though her eyes tell a different story. "I'll be alright. You focus on finding Lestrade's little girl."

Sherlock freezes as if something finally makes sense, he turns to face Martha.

"What was the address of your old home? The one you lived in before moving here." He says abruptly, taking everyone by surprise.

"Kennet Street. Not far from the Thames. Why?"

Sherlock's eyes light up. There it is. A connection…

Though it doesn't help much…

But it's a place to start.

He walks over to her and hugs her, a gesture that startles his brother. It's a meaningful hug. One that says "I'm going to miss you" and "I will see you again." He kisses her on the cheek. "Take care of yourself, Martha." Sherlock says, pulling away slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I won't find a better landlady-not-your-housekeeper anywhere else in all of London."

John is touched by Sherlock's farewell to Martha. He really does care about her. _Sociopath my butt, _John thinks.

He also gives her a hug goodbye. "Be safe," he tells her.

Then Mycroft takes her away. Sherlock and John watch at the window as Mycroft helps her into the sleek black car sitting in the street. As soon as they drive away, John turns to Sherlock.

"Now what? We don't have much time to find Lestrade's daughter."

Sherlock nods slowly, his fingers twitching. His eyes are far away, calculating something faster than John could probably keep up.

"I wonder why we haven't gotten a call or text from the Detective Inspector…" Sherlock mused in a hushed tone. After a moment, he shakes his head. "There's a piece missing. The identity of the Kidnapper and now killer is still a mystery…all that I know is that it is a woman… but why a woman?"

"A woman?" John repeats, curious. Sherlock merely nods in reply, offering no further explanation.

John looks away from Sherlock and back to the window. He didn't have any answers for him. He is tired and emotionally drained.

John wants to be helpful. He wants to help Sherlock figure out the missing piece. But John was not involved with what happened 8 years ago and feels useless.

So John does what he does best and makes a cuppa. Then stands at the window and watches cars pass by.

_Who the hell are you? _Sherlock asks silently, thinking of the kidnapper. _And why are you after Martha Hudson?_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 5:

_Tick…tock…tick…tock…_

Sherlock is close to shooting the offensive object with John's gun. He knows time is running out, he doesn't need a "friendly reminder."

The nicotine patches are making his mind race, putting every ounce of data about this case into a neat file in his hard drive.

However, the slightest detail continues to elude him.

_Why Mrs. Hudson?_

The older woman was annoying at worst, but kind hearted, even to her son-of-a-gun husband. The man had kept her trapped for years…and Sherlock was convinced she may have had a case of Stockholm's syndrome.

_Who could possibly hate Mrs. Hudson so much to murder innocent girls?_

It was obvious that the Napper was female. No man would be able to take a girl off the street without being noticed. But a woman, a woman could easily slip in and take her.

_But who had it out for Mrs. Hudson?_

It was almost laughable just how much the whole scenario didn't make sense.

Pulling at his hair, Sherlock pulled out his violin, hoping that its haunting tones would free him from his aggravation.

And perhaps give him answers.

John is upstairs, trying to get some rest. He knows it's not the best time for one, but between shifts at the clinic and chasing Sherlock all over London, he's exhausted. Between that, and the lull in the case, John figures he better take his chance. He hopes to be more helpful later, when it's most important.

But then, of course, Sherlock begins to play the violin. He's good and it sounds beautiful, but John can hardly stay asleep when he plays. He lies on his bed, over the covers, listening, and half awake. He doesn't bother to tell Sherlock to stop because a) it would do no good and b) John knows it helps him think.

Finally, and rather suddenly, the music stops.

This wakes John up all the way. There are only a few reasons Sherlock would stop on his own. _He's figured something out._

John rolls out of bed and descends the staircase in a slightly sleepy daze.

"Something new?" he asks simply.

Sherlock's instrument is hanging loosely from his fingers, his eyes glowing and a small smile creeping across his face.

"Oh… yes, John." His eyes locked on John. "The missing piece has fallen into place. Get your coat, quickly. We don't have much time!"

Sherlock throws the object at John, pulling his own coat and scarf on in at a rapid pace.

When John is ready, they run out of the apartment and head to the neighborhood they had visited only earlier that day.

Sherlock says nothing during the cab ride, but sits at the edge of his seat. John wishes he would just explain everything, but he knows Sherlock prefers dramatic reveals.

As soon as the cab stops, Sherlock flies out of it, followed by John.

They're back at the neighborhood, the one that gives John the creeps. John is anxious to hear what Sherlock has remembered, anxious to find Lestrade's girl, and anxious to catch the kidnapper. He doesn't like being in the dark. He wants to know what bothered Sherlock about this neighborhood.

"So, this is where the napper is?" John asks, following Sherlock down the street.

"Yes," Sherlock says simply, sending a brief text to Lestrade, as he leads John to behind a particularly normal looking house.

The house is small, nothing really special about it. But it was its normality that made Sherlock's skin crawl. Yes. This is where the Napper hid.

In plain sight. Just like the cabbie.

Once they were in the back yard, Sherlock pressed John's gun into the other man's hands. And with a faint nod, the two of them approached the back door.

From inside, Sherlock heard a door slam. Counting off several seconds, he nodded to John, and opened the door carefully.

The inside of the house is disturbingly clean. Sherlock takes the lead as they begin searching room to room.

Soon they locate what could only be the basement.

John is grateful Sherlock brought his gun, but it appears as though he may not need it. The house is old and mostly void of furniture. Each room they check doesn't have the kidnapper, or the girl. A knot tightens in John's stomach as they determine the top floor is empty.

Sherlock discovers the staircase and they step down it carefully, John leading the way.

At the bottom of the dark stairway is a closed door. John pushes it open with his foot and creaks open slowly. He enters quickly, gun out, followed by Sherlock.

In the middle of the room is a little girl, lying on the floor, unmoving. John glances around the perimeter of the room and doesn't immediately see anyone.

He quickly assumes the napper is not in the room and rushes to the girl. He kneels next to her, sets his gun down, and begins checking her for injuries.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he finds the girl is still breathing shallowly. _Only unconscious. _But her pulse is weak, she's been drugged. She's relatively uninjured, but has sustained a few injuries on her arms.

"She needs medical attention," John says to Sherlock, who's searching around the edges of the room.

Suddenly, a shadow to Sherlock's left detaches from the wall and makes a run for the door.

"Stay with Evie!" Sherlock barely has time to shout before he is running after the Napper.

Running! Chasing the Napper through several yards and leaping over three fences.

Sherlock picks up his pace; he can't let the Napper get away.

And he catches up to her…

…only to trip on a stray tree root.

Sherlock hits the ground and rolls quickly to his feet…

But it's too late.

The Napper vanishes into the night.

Clenching his fist tightly, Sherlock swings a wild punch at the tree that tripped him. He doesn't care about the burst of pain that floods his hand, nor the liquid that drips into his glove from his knuckles.

_She. Got. Away._

But soon a smile lights Sherlock's face, slowly and carefully, as an idea forms in his head.

He holds the Ace.

He makes his way quickly back to the Napper's house, and finds Lestrade holding Evie's unconscious body in his arms, tears streaming down his cheeks.

But he wasn't sad or weeping…no… Lestrade seems…Happy.

Something tightened in Sherlock's chest. The amount of emotion spilling off of Lestrade was enough to make Sherlock severely uncomfortable. He has never been good at emotions.

Lestrade's eyes lift to him as Sherlock approaches, his eyes full of gratitude and thanks.

Again, still horribly distressed by the emotion, Sherlock's eyes wander to find John.

John is kneeling at Lestrade's side with a first aid kit in his lap, tending to the girl's wounded arm. Sherlock deduces that John is the only member or the medical profession that was going to be able to tend to Evie while her father in his current state. _With good reason, _Sherlock tells himself. _John is the best after all._

Sherlock waits until he was finishes before pulling John aside. "She got away." Sherlock states simply.

John stiffens at these words…at least until his eyes lock on Sherlock's. He knows that look. "And you have a plan, right?"

"Am I that easy to read?" Sherlock asks in mock hurt.

John chuckles, reminding Sherlock of their first case together. "So what's the plan?"

A small smile lights Sherlock's face. "I'll tell you on the way back to Baker Street…but only if you promise to do as I ask."

John's eyes narrow, suspicious. "Alright…I guess."

Sherlock's smile widens. "Excellent."

* * *

><p>AN: Hello wonderful readers! We apologize for the shortness of the chapter and also for the cliff. ;D<p>

Tell us what you think!

-Allie and Nephy


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 6:

After John is confident that Evie will be alright, Sherlock practically drags his blogger back to the flat.

The plan buzzing in his brain is time constrained. With the Napper still on the loose, her next target will no doubtingly be Mrs. Hudson.

So in order to trap the Napper…

Once they arrive at the flat, Sherlock turns to John, a strange gleam in his eyes.

"John, I need you to pretend to be Mrs. Hudson."

John is completely taken back. It takes a moment for him to form a coherent sentence. "I'm sorry, what?" John asks in disbelief.

Sherlock looks at him exasperated, "You heard me perfectly well."

John can't believe Sherlock is being serious. But Sherlock isn't one to joke around.

"You, want me, to pretend to be Mrs. Hudson?" he cries, taking a step forward, "No, no. I won't do it."

Sherlock's asked him to do crazy, insane, utterly ridiculous things, but cross dressing is too far. John draws the line at cross dressing.

Sherlock gives him a funny look. He knew that John would respond in a similar manner. He pulls off his scarf, twisting it in his hands.

"Mrs. Hudson is in a lot of danger right now, John. Ignore the fact that she is with my brother at the moment, but eventually hiding will no longer be an option. The Napper wants her _dead._ Won't stop until she is dead. The Napper will only move to another warning sign. More people will die, John." Sherlock knows that he's playing off of John's emotions, but this is Mrs. Hudson's life that is at stake.

Sherlock is willing to risk everything. Even John's trust and confidence in him to keep Martha alive.

"You are a similar height and build to Mrs. Hudson. You have the same hair color and style. The napper wouldn't be able to tell the difference if your back was too her. I'll subdue her before she even gets close to you. Please John!"

John looks down at his feet, thinking. He knows there is no other option at the moment. He knows that as much as he doesn't want to dress as Mrs. Hudson, he's going to do it anyway. It is for Mrs. Hudson, after all. She means the world to Sherlock, and John can't disappoint him.

He looks up and sighs.

"Yes, alright, I'll do it," he says reluctantly.

Sherlock smiles.

John regrets agreeing to it as he's trying to fit into one of Mrs. Hudson's dresses. Though Sherlock is correct that they are similar sizes, the fact still remains that Mrs. Hudson is a woman and John is a man.

"God, what am I doing?" he mutters to himself.

Sherlock is bustling about the flat, his internal countdown making him move faster. He won't rush John just yet. He'll need to go over some of the details of the plan with his flatmate… and may even make dinner for him later.

When John rejoins him in the living room, Sherlock directs him to sit on the couch and begins to explain the plan.

"In about 15 minutes, the napper should arrive. She will no doubt come through the window. I will station myself out of her line of sight. You will be on the couch sipping tea. You must keep your back to the window at all cost. She will most likely have the paralytic and a rope with her."

John nods in understanding after Sherlock finishes his explanation. In his mind he can see every way the plan could go awry. He can't help but think that they should be working with the police, and not just acting on their own.

John does trust Sherlock to stop the napper before she does any harm to him. But he can't help but feel nervous. He is playing bait.

_She'll just have a needle and rope, _John tells himself, _There's no need to worry._

He sits, with his tea, trying to seem relaxed, casual, and female. Or at the very least not blatantly male.

The minutes pass slowly, John on the couch, Sherlock off to the side. John is tense with waiting. At any moment the napper will be there.

At last, the window creaks. John's body tenses, going into soldier mode, but he does not turn around. There is the soft sound of a body climbing in. From the corner of his eye John sees Sherlock slowly approaching. He still does not turn around.

Suddenly, an arm grabs John from behind. The teacup slips from his grasp and breaks on the floor. There is something cold and sharp at his throat.

A knife.

* * *

><p>AN: *smiles mischeviously* We are so mean!<p>

Thanks for reading! Tell us what you think!

-Allie and Nephy


	8. Chapter 8

AN: First, I apologize for the delay. I know I promised this would be up sooner, but Nephy and I weren't able to work on it when we thought we could.

Second, we may have thrown in a big plot twist...

Thanks for reading, tell us what you think!

-Allie and Nephy

* * *

><p>Chapter 7:<p>

Sherlock freezes at the glint of the silver knife. His blood runs cold. _No. Not again. No!_

It's The Pool all over again in his mind.

But he has to focus. _Needs_ to focus.

He can't let John go back to the hospital because of him. Ever. Again.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." He growls at the woman he can barely see.

She has the gall to laugh. "I've waited for this for 8 years. There is no way my revenge will not be fulfilled."

Sherlock tenses as a flood of memories wash over him at the sound of her voice.

_Oh, God no. Please no…_

The napper says something to Sherlock, but John doesn't hear it. He isn't paying any attention at all to Sherlock. He can only feel the knife against his throat.

The soldier in John knows he's stronger than the woman. He knows he can get away, he knows he can wrestle the knife out of her grasp. But she's holding the weapon so firmly against his neck. The edge stings against his skin, just breaking the surface. If John moves even a little…

So he sits, still as he can, and waits for the moment the napper's grip relaxes.

Sherlock's eyes momentarily flick to John, just like they did back at the Pool, then they quickly move back to the Napper. He needs to buy John time…and distract the Napper.

"Why now?"

"Oh, Sherlock…" She says, her voice sickeningly sweet. "I'm sure you've already figured all that out. You know I'm not nearly that stupid." She moves her face a little, her lips now visible above John's shoulder, red lipstick staining them, her white teeth very close to John's exposed neck.

"Molly Hudson, alias Molly Hooper. Younger sister of James Hudson, Martha's deceased husband. Idolized him. He could do nothing wrong in your eyes." Sherlock's eyes darkened as he deduced. "Then he murdered three men for drugs in Florida. When he was caught he was sentenced to death. Eight years ago, he was put to death by lethal injection."

"Very good, Sherlock." Molly says, her face coming to light.

"But why now? Why Mrs. Hudson? She had nothing to do with her husband's execution."

"Oh no, Sherlock. She didn't." Molly twists John around in her arms so that his face is very close to hers. "And neither did your…pet. Though this is a bonus I must say. No, no, no, Sherlock. This is between you and me. Mrs. Hudson, John, even Jim…they are all chess pieces in our game…pieces to be taken and pieces to be killed…"

For a moment John forgets there is a knife at his throat.

_Molly? This whole time, it was Molly? _

John can't believe it. He wouldn't believe it if someone told him. But, her face is right in front of him. He can see the gleeful look in her eye. She is ready to kill him.

_She's a damn good actress, _John thinks. All this time, appearing to be normal, pretending to be completely infatuated with Sherlock. She did always seem a bit… off.

But he can't figure out why. Why is she doing this?

And then John remembers.

"_You stopped her husband from being executed?" _

"_Oh no, I ensured it." _

Molly was never seeking revenge against Mrs. Hudson, but against Sherlock. It's all been to get to Sherlock. To get under his skin.

John snaps back into reality as the knife momentarily digs deeper into his skin. But then, the pressure is suddenly gone as Molly twists him back. This is his chance.

His hand grabs her wrist and twists the knife out of her grasp. It falls in his lap. In one fluid motion he yanks himself from Molly's grip and stands, knife in hand.

As if mind-linked, the moment John moves out of Molly's grasp, Sherlock is in motion.

By the time the knife drops into John's lap, Molly's back is pinned to Sherlock's chest, arm behind her back at an uncomfortable angle and his other arm wrapped around her neck.

"You went too far," Sherlock hisses. "John and Martha are not pieces to a game."

Molly chuckles. "For a Sociopath, you care a lot about your…pets."

Sherlock's jaw clenches. He doesn't say a word, but the grip on her arm tightens enough to make her face twist in pain.

"I'm not his pet," John states calmly, but firmly. He's grown rather tired of being called Sherlock's pet. "I'm his friend."

Molly sneers, "You're a fool John. I've seen the way you follow him, like a lost puppy. But one day he'll grow tired of you and-" she stops suddenly and winces.

John glances at Sherlock. Anyone who didn't know him would think his expression was impassive. But John can see the way his jaw is clenched, the cold anger in his eyes.

"Sherlock," John says quietly, to calm him.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoes up the stairs.

Sherlock barely hears John say his name. Blood pounding furiously in his ears.

_How dare she! How DARE she say that about John!_

His grip on Molly is like a vice when the door to the flat burst's open to reveal Lestrade.

_Good. He got the message. _Sherlock practically sneers in his mind, his temper still boiling over about what Molly had said.

Lestrade's eyes are wide when they lock on Molly. "Molly Hooper?"

"Yes." Sherlock says, his voice hard and robotic. "More accurately: Molly Hudson. The Palm branch Napper."

Lestrade's eyes darken and his lips thin into a dangerous line. "Can you prove that in court?"

For once, Sherlock knows that his usual brush off isn't going to work. In fact, he doesn't even WANT to brush this incident off. Like with Jim, this has come way to close for comfort.

"Without a shadow of a doubt."

Sherlock's voice is so hard and so furious that Molly legitimately shivers under the sound of it.

Lestrade nods and swiftly arrests Molly Hudson on 6 accounts of kidnapping and assault, and two accounts of murder.

Before they haul Molly away, Sherlock walks over to her, storm eyes raging with a furry so deep that any mortal man would tremble under its wrath.

"Where. Is. Moriarty?"

But Molly Hudson did not say a word. She just smiled and was taken away.


	9. Chapter 9

Epilogue:

Mrs. Hudson returns to 221a a few weeks later, accompanied by Mycroft.

John is happy to see her back, the flat was going to ruin without her. He helps her carry her bags in and directs Mycroft upstairs to Sherlock.

John takes Martha's bags to her flat and sets them down in the middle of the living room.

"It's good to have you back Mrs. Hudson," John says as he gives her a hug, "Sherlock's been in a mood."

Mrs. Hudson nods sympathetically, "The poor dear."

The trial that convicted Molly was a speedy one. Sherlock was brilliant in court and she was quickly found guilty and given a sentence in prison. John had not seen Sherlock so triumphant before.

But then, she escaped. It was Moriarty and everyone knew it. Both of them were somewhere, out in the world, and it drove Sherlock mad.

"Come on, let's see if you can cheer him up," John says.

Sherlock is plucking violently at his violin when Mycroft arrives upstairs. The two brothers do not say a word. There are no words that need to be said.

Mycroft takes a seat across from his brother. As soon as he is seated, Sherlock jumps up and sets his bow to his violin. He can no longer contain his fury in mere plucking. His face is taught, eyes squeezed shut, brows furrowed, lips and jaw set.

Never before in his life has he felt such rage.

The ferocity of the notes escalates, gaining more and more speed….

Until a small hand rests on his arm.

The music stops and Sherlock opens his eyes locking on Mrs. Hudson's.

And everything begins to crumble: his face, the tenseness of his arm, his jaw. The violin becomes slack in his fingers and his shoulders hunch.

Mycroft has sense to leave, after quickly leaving a sealed envelope in John's possession with Sherlock's name on it.

When his brother is gone, Sherlock finally speaks. "I…I'm so sorry, Martha," His words soft and his head bowed.

Mrs. Hudson cannot bear to see her tenant, the one she sees as an adopted son, so distraught when he is usually so confident. She takes the violin from his hands and lifts his chin. "Don't be, Sherlock." She says, her voice steady and kind. "You did all you could—"

"But I _Should_ have seen the escape coming, Martha!" Sherlock turns his head violently away from her hand. "It was predictable!"

Mrs. Hudson pulls her hand away for a moment and then gather's his hands in hers. "Sherlock, dear, look at me."

After a moment, Sherlock obeys.

"You saved me. I'm alive because you stopped…The Napper from getting to me. You saved Evie. Hell, you even saved John!" She smiles slightly at him. "Don't beat yourself up over what you can't change, dear. It's not decent."

She gets a chuckle out of that one.

And surprisingly a hug.

After a few moments, Sherlock releases her and stands up straight. "Now, Mrs. Hudson. Seeing as you are tired from your trip and still have to unpack your belongings, I propose that John and I cook dinner for you tonight."

"You don't have to do that dear," she begins to protest.

"Please Mrs. Hudson," John interrupts, looking up from the envelope in his hand, "Let us do this for you." Although he finds the idea of Sherlock cooking a bit frightening, John wants to do something nice for her.

She tuts and blushes and thanks them.

Sherlock walks into the kitchen and John follows him.

"Mycroft left this for you," John says, handing over the envelope. Sherlock takes it from him, looking deep in thought.

John turns his attention to making tea.

"What is it?" he asks.

Sherlock's eyes take in every detail of the envelope; the texture, the quality, everything is taken and catalogued.

He slips it into his jacket pocket and slips said garment off of his shoulders and tosses it haphazardly over the back of one of the chairs of the dining room table. "It's not important at the moment. I'll open it later."

He rolls up his sleeves and begins walking towards the cabinets, that, oddly enough, were stuffed with food.

"What do you think Martha would like to eat, John?" Sherlock asks, continuing to stare into the cabinets, startling his flatmate for a moment.

John looks at the stock in the cupboard and then at Sherlock. The question is not, what would Martha like to eat, but rather, what could they make without destroying the kitchen.

"How about pasta?" John suggests upon seeing a box of it. That's easy to make, right?

Sherlock agrees and John instructs him to put a pot of water on to boil while getting started on the sauce.

They work quickly and without too much trouble. Sherlock is surprisingly adept at cooking, or at least he follows John's instructions well, and John only has to snap at him once.

The meal is ready and John clears Sherlock's experiments to one side of the table. Then, the three of them sit down to eat.

As a surprise for her return home, Sherlock pulls out a bottle of Martha's favorite wine, and after a glass and a half each, the three of them are laughing and sharing stories.

A couple of hours later, Martha goes back to her room to go to bed after much persuasion on both John and Sherlock's part that they would take care of the dishes.

Sherlock sets to work washing the plates while John dries them and puts them away. They work in silence.

"She was right, you know." Sherlock says out of the blue, his eyes focused on the dish he was scrubbing with perhaps a bit too much effort.

The statement surprises John. He looks up from the dish he is drying. Sherlock is all too absorbed in the dish he is washing and won't meet his gaze. Something was bothering him.

John tries to think of what Sherlock could be referring to, but is at a loss.

"Who was right about what?" he asks.

"Molly," Sherlock states simply. "About for being a Sociopath, high functioning as I am, I do care a lot more than a normal sociopath would about you and Martha."

Sherlock tilts his head away from John. He doesn't know what to expect from his flatmate and that sends his stomach churning.

This is new and different and uncomfortable for Sherlock. Feelings that is. Just even trying to explain it to John makes him want to run to his room and not come out until he can sort all this out.

Delete all the emotions.

Or drown them in whatever substance he found would work the best.

_John would hate that though!_ His inner demon whispers.

And he doesn't want John to hate him.

John suddenly understands Sherlock's discomfort. He stares at his friend, thinking of a reply. He silently curses Molly, thinking of some choice words he wouldn't normally use.

"I have never, for one moment, thought you were a sociopath," John replies seriously.

It's a slight exaggeration, but for the most part is true. Ever since Sherlock had introduced him to Sebastian as his friend, John has doubted his claim of being a sociopath, high functioning or otherwise.

Sure, Sherlock has antisocial tendencies and is manipulative and struggles to understand emotions. But Sherlock isn't emotionless. John has seen how passionate Sherlock can be.

"Sherlock, there's nothing wrong with caring about people," John says gently.

Sherlock almost scoffs at the statement, desperately wanting to just brush off this entire conversation and move on, to the next case, to just life as it was.

But he can't.

"…but caring get's people hurt…" He hears himself say in a small voice.

_Will caring about them save them?_

_No._

_Then I shall continue to not make that mistake._

The plate he is cleaning furiously is straining under the pressure.

_Ah, so that's what this is all about, _John realizes.

"You mean caring about me gets me hurt," John says. Sherlock cleans with even more vigor. "You can't stop feeling to protect me. I don't want that and it wouldn't work."

John's hand reaches out and stops Sherlock's washing.

"You're going to break the plate," he says as he takes it from him. John rinses the dish and turns back to Sherlock.

The way he stands, he looks lost. John puts the dish down and pulls the consulting detective into a hug.

Sherlock stiffens as John's arms encircle him. It's a cautious hug…but the fact that John is hugging him to begin with…

The Consulting Detective, the man with all the answers, is for once, at a loss as to how to respond.

And arm rises from his side and awkwardly pats John on the back, his ears getting warm, embarrassed from his lack of knowledge on exactly how to hug someone.

Fortunately, John gets the picture and pulls away a moment later.

John stands there awkwardly a moment before clearing his throat and turning back to the dishes. Sherlock joins him and they slip back into the routine. John casually inquires after Sherlock's latest experiment and he replies with a long explanation.

Neither speak about the conversation or the case. John has more to say on the subject, but doesn't. There is a sort of understanding between them.

They finish the dishes and Sherlock flops onto the couch, hands together, thinking. John watches him a moment, smiling, before bidding his friend goodnight.

Because that's what Sherlock is, his best friend. And John is glad he has him.

* * *

><p>AN: First, WE LOVE YOU GUYS! We appreciate all the alerts, favorites, and reviews.<p>

Second, we will be writing more, so keep an eye out for us!

Thanks so much for reading!

-Allie and Nephy


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